


Legacy

by Kirstein_and_Arlert



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Young Avengers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:24:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirstein_and_Arlert/pseuds/Kirstein_and_Arlert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate goes looking for weapons and ends up finding other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> For a blank space prompt on my 100_women table.

The mansion is full of clothes. Some of the kitchen cupboards are still partially open, as if the Avengers were in such a hurry to get away that they left everything exactly as it was. It’s a haunted house, forever frozen in the final moments of the last normal day that the Avengers had. If there wasn’t very real danger right outside, Kate thinks that she’d be creeped out.

Instead, Kate runs through the kitchen and heads for the bedrooms. Cassie’s talked enough about what she remembers that she knows where they are, and where there are the bedrooms of superheroes, there’s bound to be useful things.

 _Weapons, weapons, weapons_. Kate rummages through the abandoned piles of clothes, costumes and weapons. None of them are of any use to her; none of them are what she’s looking for... She needs something she can use, something that she’s been trained with or something she can adapt to quickly.

Her gaze lands on the bow at the bottom of the pile. It looks as if someone tried to cover it up, hide it from their sight because they couldn’t stand to look at it any longer. It’s... It’s Hawkeye’s bow. Kate swallows hard. Hawkeye, who died in mysterious circumstances, who was reported as dead on the evening news, right at the end, the news delivered by a man with sad eyes who replayed Captain America’s words with no emotion in his voice. Like a hero dying wasn’t anything that interesting. There were vigils after, though. Candles and thanks for all that the Avengers had done. Kate’s dad hadn’t let her go.

This...This is more difficult than she thought it would be.

Okay, she’s got a bow – a really good one – but she needs arrows, she needs a quiver.

Kate throws open the closet doors. More abandoned clothing, some of Hawkeye’s old costumes – one that looks like it’s been mended. She picks it up to dig through some more when there’s a clink and something, no, two things, fall out of it. Kate jumps backwards, one of them just missing her toes.

She knows what these are. They’re the battle staves that Mockingbird used. Mockingbird, who was married to Hawkeye, who died saving his life. Kate knows the story. She doesn’t know Mockingbird’s real name – no one does; there are even a few long-dead websites which were dedicated to trying to find it out before she died – but she would know the weapons anywhere. Her hands shake as she picks them up, running her fingers across the cold surface. They were wrapped in the uniform, not just abandoned, as if Hawkeye wanted to keep them safe from harm, save them the way he hadn’t been able to save Mockingbird herself.

There’s a mask there as well, Kate realises, pulling it from the pile of fabric. A few photographs slip out as well, slightly singed at the edges, but recognisable. There are a few of the West Coast Avengers, the original team, standing outside the compound, smiling because, oh God, they had no idea what was coming, did they? Kate pushes the photograph back under Hawkeye’s costume. She doesn’t want to think about that, about how happy they were. One of the other photographs is Hawkeye with his arm around Mockingbird, one of Tigra, Iron Man and Wonder Man standing in front of the compound. It looks like they’re talking about something, like Clint just snapped a photograph without even looking at what he was seeing.

The photo at the very bottom of the pile has been folded and unfolded a hundred times. There are deep cracks breaking the surface, but it’s easily recognisable. Mockingbird, standing in front of the compound (the weather’s the same; Kate thinks it was taken on the same day as the one of Tigra and Wonder Man). She’s holding the battle staves up as if she’s in a fight, but she’s grinning, maybe even laughing at whoever’s taking the photograph.

The mask is worn soft in places, as if Mockingbird had pushed it away from her face so many times that there are places for her fingers. It’s still as striking as it was in the news clips Kate’s seen, in the photographs Clint had taken.

Kate looks at the photos again, at their bright smiles and how _happy_ they all are, Mockingbird in particular, and wants to cry.

The lump in Kate’s throat is still there as she puts the mask on. It settles naturally, as if it’s supposed to be there, like it belongs to her (it doesn’t; Kate’s seen the photographs). It, like most of the other things in the mansion, was custom made. The battle staves are cold (they’ve been abandoned for years), but Kate knows how to hold them, how to raise them to strike or block.

She tries, just once to prepare herself.

It isn’t until she’s holding one battle stave in front of her (perfect position for blocking) and bringing the other one up for a strike (hard, fast, painful, deadly if enough force is applied) that she realises she’s mimicking one of the photos. Mimicking Mockingbird, right down to the way she puts one foot forward and braces herself for an impact that isn’t coming right now.

The bow rests heavy against her shoulder, and the quiver digs in more than her own, but they just feel right when Kate straightens up and looks at her reflection in a splotchy mirror. There’s a sword propped up in the corner of the closet, so she takes it for good luck, if nothing else. Hey, it’s a sword. Who’d pass up a chance to maybe fight with a sword?

Someone shouts outside.

Kate swallows hard, thinks of the photographs, of Hawkeye and Mockingbird, of their smiles in those photographs, of their lives ending so suddenly, of their weapons in her hands, and heads downstairs.

She isn’t Hawkeye. She isn’t Mockingbird. But maybe, just maybe, she can make them proud.


End file.
